When You look At Me Like That, My Darling
by tahnhoe
Summary: Warmth pools in her stomach just then, and Lydia realizes this: Her best friend turns her on. / Or, the one when Lydia and Stiles are best friends and decide to fuck, inevitably causing problems. Part I of We're All Shook Up.


_when you look at me like that, my darling_

( _Warmth pools in her stomach just then, and Lydia realizes this: Her __best friend__ turns her on._ | Or, the one when Lydia and Stiles are best friends and decide to fuck, inevitably causing problems. )

* * *

It only takes about five minutes for Lydia to thank herself for deciding to skip out on the party tonight, having looked at the clock a few minutes ago and realizing how tired she truly is, despite the blaring numbers reading 7:49pm. On a Friday night. And Lydia Martin is tired; exhausted, even.

Figures.

She's already in her pajamas, hair up in a lazy bun, and while she would like to get some real sleep for a change, she pulls out her phone instead, texting Stiles impulsively.

Stiles Stilinski also being her best friend since birth was another reason why she'd decided that partying all night with the very people that sneered in her direction when she walked down the hall with him? Probably not the best idea.

Under other circumstances, she might've gone to the party regardless, pretending for one night that Stiles was not her best friend and she did not spend an unreasonable amount of time with him on a consistent basis. Unfortunately, that scenario has happened more than she'd like to admit, but tonight, she isn't feeling that particularly brand of energy. Or cruelness, whichever.

Being best friends with Stiles is very hard, you see, because Lydia is popular and Stiles is not, and while it may seem admirable that she's stuck with him anyways, that doesn't change the fact that his haphazard, jerky movements and awkward ramblings and just general _awkwardness_ is a deterrent to his coolness.

Stiles will never be cool, or popular, and Lydia's tried adjusting his wardrobe and extracurriculars and even smoked pot with him once - never, ever again, for both parties involved - and he's still, well, _him_. Not that Lydia minds too much, or really ever, if she's being honest. But sometimes it's hard.

Tonight, she decides it isn't hard. Tonight, she wants to spend the night with him, doing stupid best-friend things and ignoring the relentless pounding in her head from being overworked.

Her fingers glide over the screen. _Come over_, she says, _I have alcohol and Cheez-Its._

His reply is almost immediate. _Fuck, I'm down_, he replies, then, _how's your essay?_

Lydia smirks. _Done, edited twice and ready to be uploaded into Tapper's dropbox. The bitch didn't think I had it in me to finish it this early._

_You're fucking crazy, Lyds._

_It's out of the way_, she justifies, because really. Who wants to drag out unnecessary deadlines? Lydia has a semester's worth of homework already completed, and she understands most of the material better than her teachers. Plus, it gives her extra time to memorize math theorems and recite Wallace Stevens in her head in the majority of her classes without feeling bad about it. Not that she ever has.

_It isn't due for another three weeks_, he says. _But still, you're a genius._

Lydia preens, always satisfied with praise even when she knows it's coming. _I know_, she replies, _now, are you coming over or what? There's unfettered access to my father's liquor cabinet and a box of White Cheddar Cheez-Its with your name on it_.

_Be there in five minutes._

Lydia grins, leaning back to let her hair down.

Stiles arrives in approximately seven minutes, tumbling gracelessly through her bedroom window, backpack flopping heavily against his back.

Lydia gives him an unimpressed look from the door, tossing a half-full box of Cheez-Its at the back of his head. She ignores his groan and glare with practiced indifference. "There's this thing called a door," she reminds him.

"Kinda hard to be intimidating when you've got on penguin printed pajamas shorts," Stiles tosses back, ignoring Lydia's huff of annoyance, bouncing onto his feet and walking towards her in quick strides to give her a bear hug. "But it's nice to see you, too."

Lydia softens instinctively, nudging his shoulder. "Yeah. Not gonna lie, I'm pretty fucking exhausted right about now," she pokes his chest when they pull away. "Which is why I need _you_ to wake me up."

Stiles mock salutes, shrugging out of his bag and jacket and toeing off his shoes, creating a neat pile by her door. "Prepare to be roused from your slumber," he purrs, wiggling his eyebrows, and Lydia can't help but snort with laughter.

"Please, say _anything_ but that."

Stiles looks playfully offended. "Fine. Feel free to succumb to unconsciousness. I'm only here for the Cheez-Its, anyway." He ducks in time to miss her phone hit him square in the face, but there is a definite thunk when it barrels against his skull. Minor success. Stiles groans, rubbing his head. "_Shit_, Lyds."

She smiles innocently at his exasperated face, shrugging. "So, we have three choices within reason: vodka, Chardonnay, which, _ew_, or champagne. Your choice."

Stiles raises his brow. "Is champagne hardcore enough for a Friday night?"

Lydia narrows her eyes. "You're really asking me that with your hand buried inside a box of Cheez-Its?"

"Touche."

Lydia taps her chin. "I kind of want champagne though. I want to get drunk, but like, bubbly drunk, not shit-faced drunk. I'm not sobering you up at 5am when my parents get home and tossing you out my window like last time."

Stiles holds his finger up in defense. "For the record, you didn't tell me that shit was like, _pure_ vodka. Swear to god, I saw Jesus after like, one shot."

Lydia grins. Her best friend is an idiot. "So champagne, then?"

Stiles swallows, mouth dusky with crumbs and flavor. "Yeah - champagne."

The bottle is between her thighs, her feet absentmindedly rubbing against Stiles' jeans, who twitches every now and again as he lies on her carpet. They've successfully done nothing, said nothing, for the last fifteen minutes, but listened to the outside noises and excitement coming through Lydia's window. Her mind is a little heavy, stomach full with a pleasant buzz, and she - she's glad she invited Stiles over.

Stiles, despite his unfailing ability to over-complicate most things, does not complicate their friendship. Never has. He's okay with just sitting with her, inhaling as she exhales, being her friend. They're so different, yet connected somehow, through something Lydia could never quite define, or even label.

She glances at him and he's staring pensively at her ceiling. She nudges his knee. "What?"

He looks at her. "Weren't you invited to a party tonight?" his voice is knowing and Lydia hates it.

She shrugs. "Decided not to go," her voice is dismissive and she reaches for the bottle, swallowing the bubbles.

Stiles sits up, limbs heavy and awkward as he reaches for the bottle, and she wordlessly passes it to him. "You could've went, you know," he says, before tipping the bottle back. Lydia straightens, tension in her spine.

"It wasn't about _you_," she counters, maybe too defensively, but how can she not? "I just - I was tired. Didn't feel like breathing in sweat and getting drunk without my best friend."

Stiles accepts this, smiles around the bottle, and Lydia - her breath catches for a moment. "Just making sure," he says easily, dropping it, his cheeks hollowed around the tip of the bottle before handing it back and laying down.

Lydia takes a moment to stare at him, at the red flush of his cheeks from the alcohol, the moles on his neck, the pink of his lips. She's never truly taken time to stare at Stiles before, the Stiles who is actually comfortable in his skin to remove some of his asinine layering. He's sprawled out, limbs long, but there's tautness to them, definition. His shirt hugs him in all of the right places, showing the muscle under his shirt that leaves her wanting more.

And his arms - the flex of his muscles, suddenly makes her mouth go dry.

Warmth pools in her stomach just then, and Lydia realizes this: Her _best friend_ turns her on.

Stiles Stilinski, the boy she's known since diapers, who she's shared baths with, capital A Awkward Stiles, turns her on. Right now. In this very moment. His hair is ruffled, sticking up in places, and when he breathes, his shirt stretches over the expanse of his stomach, just a little bit. And his eyes, god, his eyes are like warm honey - eyes she never allowed herself to get lost in.

And Lydia finds herself biting her lip, pressing her thighs together, because Stiles is turning her on. She wants to fuck her best friend.

The very thought should be repulsive, or immediately dismissed, but instead, Lydia allows herself to mull over the idea of her and Stiles, touching and feeling and breathing in each other's space. She thinks he would be gentle, his fingers long but intent, pressing on every curve of her, memorizing, mapping. She thinks he would kiss her - _god_, his lips - he would kiss her like everything about it is fascinating, like he could spend his life just memorizing her mouth.

The thought makes her own dry. Oh. Oh, _fuck_.

Stiles glances at her, his expression slightly concerned. "You okay? You keep zoning out."

Lydia blinks rapidly, jarred out of her fantasy. God, she just fantasized about her best friend, and now a part of her brain is trying to figure out a way to turn it into reality, no matter how much the rational part of it protests. Lydia Martin is always rational, but for the first time in her life, she's faced with an internal battle, and she knows she's completely and utterly fucked, and this could ultimately fuck up their friendship.

It barely takes a second for it to register in her mind that she doesn't care.

She nods, pursing her lips, glancing down at the alcohol and then back him. Something in her stomach flutters, distinctively different from arousal, and maybe it's the alcohol that allows her to form the question in her mouth, or maybe it's the simple fact that Stiles could never deny her anything.

Either way, it slips out with easy air and she asks, "How do you feel about sex?" Stiles' eyes bulge out, and he flails himself upright, a motion that should immediately turn her off, but surprisingly doesn't.

"Wha - sex? In general, or - or..." The question hangs in the air for a moment.

Lydia's heart pounds and she knows if she waits a second too long, she might lose her nerve.

She exhales. "With me, of course."

Stiles' eyes widen impossibly further, and he bites his lip, and god, Lydia wants her mouth all over it, her cheeks flushing furiously at the thought. When on _earth_ did this happen? "I mean - I? I haven't really, um. Oh god, wow, this escalated quickly."

Lydia rolls her eyes at his rambling, which is totally hypocritical considering she feels like a fish out of water, floundering about. But Lydia isn't stupid and she knows there's something lingering in the air, something that has been for the past year. She sees the way he looks at her sometimes, when she wears a skirt and her footsteps are perfectly in sync with the flouncing of her curls. He gives her this open-mouthed look of awe at times, so fleeting yet so distinct, and Lydia knows nothing about this attraction she's feeling is one-sided.

Her nerves click under control and she only allows room for confidence, leaning forward on her knees. "Be honest, Stiles. You haven't thought about it, not once?" she inquires, crawling close to him, the glide of the rug against her skin burning, but not as uncomfortable as the ache between her legs.

Stiles straightens up, his cheeks and ears pink, and his eyes dart away from her. "Uh, maybe? I mean, we have been friends for a long ass time and - _gah_." Lydia grabs his chin, forcing him to look at her.

"You're right," she breathes, "we _have_ been friends for a long time." Her fingers dance across the skin of his chin, nails dragging against the freckles, and leans up, lips against his ear, whispering, "and friends fuck."

Stiles lets out a groan, squeezing his eyes shut hard. "Shit. Yeah. This is a thing," he whines, voice rising in pitch.

Lydia smirks, settling herself into his lap. "It could be," she agrees, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "That is, if you're up for it."

Stiles' eyes fly open in disbelief. "Up for it? Are you _kidding_? I can think of like, a thousand guys who would be up for this," his breath is warm against her lips and her breath stutters in her chest.

She grips his shoulders, nails digging into the flannel of his shirt. "Yes, I'm aware," his dick hardens, pressing in between her legs, and she inhales sharply through her nose. "But are _you_?"

Stiles nods jerkily, his hands cautiously resting on her hips. "Y-yeah, I've always - " he stares at her for a long moment, and it all becomes very clear. "I just, I mean, I'm totally all about sex and everything, um, about this current situation."

Lydia raises a brow. "Are you all about kissing me? Because I feel like you should do that as soon as possible."

Stiles squawks a little, fingers flexing against her skin. "Right." He leans forward, lips barely brushing against hers, soft and completely unsure for a fraction of a second, before something undoubtedly clicks in his mind and his body takes control, pressing his lips on hers, hard and wet.

Lydia opens her mouth in surprise, which Stiles takes complete advantage of, tongue exploring her mouth like he's intent on erasing every other kiss she's experienced. It makes her heart pound and she tilts her head, hands finding purchase in his hair as Stiles sucks on her bottom lip, a low moan rumbling in Lydia's throat.

She tugs on the unruly strands of his hair and Stiles grunts, a sharp thrust of his hips against her, and yes, _fuck yes_, Lydia does not regret any part of this. Stiles pulls back, hands slipping further until they're cupping her ass, and he presses her right against his dick as his presses hot, open-mouthed kisses on her neck.

Lydia hates hickeys, hates the hassle of having to cover them up the day after, but when Stiles nips at her pulse-point, soothing the bite with his tongue, her vision goes blurry and damn. _Damn_.

She's not even allowed a moment of being impressed by Stiles incredible make-out technique, because he rutting against her, the friction of his dick against her making her body go warm down to her toes.

His hands come around to her front, sliding down to the hem of her t-shirt and he pulls back with a satisfying pop, his mouth glistening from her lip gloss. And wow, that's an image Lydia would like to see on the regular.

He fidgets. "Can I...?"

"Reciprocity is key," Lydia reminds him, smirking.

Stiles blushes. "Right, yeah."

"Hey - Stiles," she breathes out a laugh. "It's _me_. You don't have to be embarrassed," she assures him, leaning forward, "plus, I think you look pretty fucking hot, if I'm being honest."

Stiles raises a brow, a grin breaking out on his face. "Yeah?"

"Hell yeah."

"_Fuck_ yeah," Stiles does an obnoxious fist-pump before pulling off his shirt with new-found urgency, his neck and chest flushed. Lydia catalogs every mole and freckle on his skin, the jump of his abs when she scrapes her nails against them.

"See? Totally nothing to be embarrassed of," Lydia licks her lips, tweaking his nipples with her fingers, delighted when he whines.

"Fuck, Lyds, now you're just taking advantage of me."

"Not taking advantage, per se," she says coyly, pinching at the newly reddened skin, greedily soaking up each and every one of Stiles' reactions. "Just showing my appreciation."

"Lydia Martin appreciates my body. Lydia Martin wants to fuck me." Stiles sing-songs, his breaths coming out heavy.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Lydia Martin is fully capable of shutting this party down and getting herself off." she reminds him sternly, and Stiles chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest.

"Now, _that's_ something I'd like to see," he responds cheekily, like the bastard he is.

"Maybe another time," Lydia concedes, without realizing the underlying promise in her words, tearing off her shirt. "Now, then, can we please redirect our attention to the more important matter at hand?"

"What's more important than - _holy shit_." Stiles' mouth falls open, eyes bugging at the sight of her chest, "I rectify that statement: this is definitely more important at the moment."

Lydia smirks, pushing her chest upwards. "Glad you've come to your senses."

Stiles reaches out, fingers ghosting over her chest. "_Fuck_ - can I touch them?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask that question," Lydia responds impatiently, pressing his hand right on her breast, marveling at the warmth of his palm. He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching gently, but it's enough to send sparks down Lydia's core and a moan to escape from her lips.

"_Shit_."

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, reaching behind her, unclasping her bra with such efficiency that leaves her breathless. "I've got moves."

"Shut _up_, Stiles," she groans, shrugging out of her bra and chucking it elsewhere, gasping when Stiles leaned down, his lips on her chest. Her hands found his hair once again, pulling with white-hot arousal, trying to get his mouth to where she needs it the most.

He moans against her, circling his tongue around her nipple and Lydia cries out, shoving her chest upwards, rocking against him when his teeth scrape her sensitive flesh, gentle but relentless. The warmth of his mouth, the pressure of lips closing around her nipple, sucking as he teases the other, sends jolts of electricity down her spine, tension building in her shoulders.

Arousal stirs in her stomach, pools in between her legs, and she wants more, _needs_ more, her toes tingling. "Stiles, I need - " she refuses to accept that fact that she just _squeaked_ her best friend's name, instead pulling his head back up, mouth off of her nipple, and pulls him forward. "I need more."

Stiles's eyes flash with comprehension, darkened with lust, and he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

He leans her down on the carpet, hovering above her, lips gravitating back to her neck as his fingers trail down to her cursed penguin-printed pajama bottoms. Note to self: Penguins? Completely and utterly _not_ sexy.

Stiles exhales shakily, his dick straining against the fabric of his jeans, pressed against her inner thigh. "Fuck, Lydia, you're so - " his voice breaks off, lips shaking on her skin. "You're perfect."

Lydia's heart clenches at his words, how Stiles has the ability to be awkward and fumbling, yet bold and allow his feelings to tumble out of his mouth without recourse or regret. She knows the fuzziness in her head is due to the alcohol, but the knotting in her chest, the wild beating at the tips of her ears is another thing, and she accepts Stiles' sloppy kisses with mutual earnest, his words echoing in the back of her mind, trying to find a place there.

His fingers are long and timid, as if he's waiting for Lydia to tell him to stop, but instead she deepens this kiss, arching up into his hand, and that's all the encouragement he needs. Stiles's hand creeps lower and he presses a finger on her slit through her underwear, the sudden pressure drawing a gasp from Lydia's throat. Her underwear is unjustifiably wet, the movement of Stiles' finger creating heady sounds from between her legs.

He presses a second finger to her, teasingly rubbing up and down, marveling at how wet she gets, and Lydia groans in frustration, arching away from him.

"This," she pants, hating how weak she sounds. "Is _not_ working." She shimmies out of her shorts and underwear in lightning speed, ready to get this show on the road.

Stiles watches her in a mixture of amusement and awe, that is until she spreads legs wide exposing herself to the cool air. It makes her shiver, goosebumps rising on her skin.

Stiles stares for a long moment, his mouth moving but no words come out, before leaning back down, pressing his finger inside of her, and god, it's good. It's _great_.

Lydia arches up, squeezing the back of his neck, which Stiles takes as encouragement to add a second finger, curling them both inside of her just right. Hell _fucking_ yes, it's right. The rhythm Lydia creates with her desperate thrusts is sloppy, legs shaking with need, her orgasm so close yet so far out of reach.

"Fuck, Stiles - _please_." Lydia Martin has been reduced to begging. Unbelievable.

Stiles grunts, fingers flexing, "Please what? Say it, Lyds. Tell me what you want."

Her eyes burn and her stomach aches, and she thrusts up, hard and faster, but it's not enough. "My clit - touch my clit. Make me come."

Stiles doesn't hesitate, pressing his thumb right against the hardened bud, moving in fast circles with talent Lydia didn't know he possessed, and she can feel herself coming, the pleasure overwhelming like tidal waves, and Stiles helps her through it, his fingers knuckle-deep and wet. Her chest heaves and she barely has time to recover from the haze in her mind when she feels Stiles sliding down her body, and god, Lydia is in no way, shape or form, ready for that.

She grabs his shoulders, pulling, "Not that."

Stiles frowns, disappointed. "But I want - "

"Later," Lydia insists, unbuttoning his jeans with shaking hands. "I want to see you."

The noise she gets in response to her hand on his dick is all-too satisfying.

"Fuuuuck," Stiles groans, his forehead smacking against hers, "shit, ow, sorry."

Lydia just laughs, her hand tightening around his length, pumping him for a few moments, before shoving his jeans and boxers down swiftly. His dick bobs free, red and long and shiny with pre-come.

"Impressive," she drawls, gathering some of his slick in her palm, tightening her hand around him once again.

"Shit, that's - _fuck_. Lyds, you gotta stop," Stiles grunts out, sounding wrecked as he thrusts greedily into her palm.

Lydia pulls away, pulling him down and rolling them over, snickering at Stiles' surprised expression. "I need to get a condom," she explains, reaching behind her and rummaging around in her nightstand, pulling out a foil packet. "Plus," she leans down, breath hot, "I want to ride you."

Stiles' face goes through a series of contortions as Lydia gleefully tears the condom open with her teeth, soothing it down his dick expertly.

"I can think of about ten fantasies this current situation is fulfilling," Stiles croaks out, whimpering when Lydia positions him right underneath her entrance, the head of his dick grazing against her, causing him to jut out. "But not as good as this. _Fuck_."

"Damn right," Lydia grits out, sinking onto him, gasping as he stretches her. Stiles groans, hands grabbing her hips to angle her before she can completely adjust, and it feels so much better than before. She plants her hands on his chest, rocking with uncontrollable enthusiasm, the need to come spiking up her spine once again. Stiles meets her thrusts sloppily, the buzz of the champagne in his system throwing off his ability to keep rhythm, and Lydia's barely able to work herself on him before he grips her hips and rolls them over once again, the burn of the rug on Lydia's ass.

But with Stiles' dick inside of her, twitching and thick, she can't find any room to complain.

He grunts, rolling his hips, dick hitting that spot inside of her just right, and he's mumbling, "Not gonna last, Lyds," his voice slurred and hysterical.

"Me neither," she manages to get out, her toes curling with each thrust. "Harder, shit, I'm _so_ close."

Stiles leans up on his elbows, widening Lydia's leg to get a better angle so he can get at her clit and g-spot simultaneously, and Lydia could cry at how good of a fuck he is, her moans coming out high and breathy.

He thrusts hard and deep, pelvic bone brushing her clit, and Lydia's coming, her hips rolling uncontrollably as she bites down on her palm to muffle her screaming. She clenches around him and Stiles comes almost immediately thereafter, his thrusts sharp and deep as he empties himself into the condom, all but collapsing on top of Lydia, bones weak from alcohol and orgasm.

Lydia narrows her eyes at his shoulder when the task of breathing becomes difficult. "Goddamn it, get off." She shoves at him and Stiles pulls out and rolls over, letting out a high-pitched squeak when she hits his chest, her breathing just as heavy as his.

"Holy fuck," he says, semi-composed and very awed.

"Well, not necessarily 'holy', but - " Stiles cuts her off, leaning over to press a chaste kiss on her lips, his cheeks red and hot. Lydia sighs. "It was _very_ satisfactory."

Stiles wheezes out laughter, and it warms her all over. "Only you, Lyds. Seriously," he says fondly, brushing her cheek slow and lazily with his thumb.

Lydia can't help but blush a little bit, and she'll whine about the ridiculousness of it all later, but for now, she just leans into his touch, and lets her heart beat wildly.


End file.
